2013 Salal Review

Award winning literary and arts magazine of Lower Columbia College.

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The Salal Review
Lower Columbia College
Volume 13: Spring 2013
Photograph by Nancy Bauer
The Editors of The Salal Review would like to extend their most
sincere thanks to the LCC Foundation, without whom this magazine
would never have found its way into your hands.
Senior Editors
Travis Andersen
Robert Prager
Editors
Robert Duncan
Michael Gray
Lisa Hassett
Maryanne Hirning
Stephanie Tull
Arthur Wheeldon
Staff
Jennifer Hughes
Drew Lytle
Coleen Teresa Search
J. Grant Wylie
Advisor
Hiedi Bauer
Table of Contents
8
Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s This Guy on the Block
Lorraine Merrin
25
9
Overcome
Summer Jennings
26
10
Sometimes There Are No Words
Lorraine Merrin
27
11
At Dusk the Gardenerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Eyes...
Jane S. Poole
28
12
Purple Lily
Katherine Robbins
29
Haunted Window
Summer Jennings
14
Bitter Tea
John D. Ciminello
30
Sean Connery
Asia Murray
21
Young Girl
Alana Bloomfeldt
31
The Letter
Kris Kibbee
22
Silent Morning
Azamat Berdiyev
32
24
Visit of a Genial Fog
Janice Haupt
33
The Bell
Trisha Kc Buel Wheeldon
Jump
Ray Cooper
Beyond These Rusty Bones
Elizabeth Engel
Bite of the Radish
John D. Ciminello
A Half Bubble off Plumb
Kelley Jacquez
Shadow Woman
Steve Grob
Table of Contents
34
Jongleur
J.S. Anderson
47
35
Raven Girl
Kendra Skerbeck
49
38
The Butterfly Invasion
David Hughey
50
Fall
Asia Murray
41
Autumn’s Silent Beauty
Angela Ankenman
50
Technician’s Verse
Darlene deVida
42
Milk and Honey
Kristin Yuill
51
Dreams Take Flight
Nona Nowlin
43
24 Hour Cafe
Angel Ocasio
52
44
Lunch
Ruby Murray
53
45
Prayer for the Night
Kristin Yuill
55
Queue
Nancy Bauer
Wild Box
Ruby Murray
Peter Iredale
Jenica Lemmons
Locked in the Seasons
Amanda Sirois
Winter Scene
Suzanne Norman
The Key of C
Katherine Robbins
46
Cover Art by Elizabeth Engel
Advice From the Editors
“Is my stuff good enough?” If you’re asking yourself this question then you already
have an edge on the competition, and yes, publication is competitive. Like the Olympics,
publishers choose the best to showcase, and seeing something you’ve created available for
public adoration is the gold medal. Just like Olympians, we can’t breeze through a first draft
and expect to win the gold. Winning is not instantaneous; it begins long before the
competition commences as a smoldering idea. The heat of that idea intensifies, growing into
embers that glow at the base of your belly like the eggs of a dragon before finally exploding
into skin-blistering flames.
It’s hard to get your stuff good enough. Sometimes it hurts, but can you think of
anything better to pour your sweat and blood and tears into than something that you’ve
created?
I can’t.
So what is “good enough”?
Good enough means that you’ve invested so much of yourself into your art that you
could close your eyes and envision every brush stroke, every plot twist. Good enough means
you’ve had every person possible tear your creation to its roots so you can reconstruct it
from its foundations. Good enough means you may have to wake up at three in the morning
to change “terrifying” to “horrifying” because it’s just the right word. I say unto thee, good
enough means starting over seventy times seven times if that’s what it takes.
Good enough means never being afraid to submit your creation.
What good is forcing that fire from your gut only to let it turn to ash on a closet shelf?
If you’re not accepted, good enough means knowing you will try again. In Greek
mythology it took the gods five attempts to create the human race. In our culture, it may take
you five years to be published. Or fifty.
However, there is beauty in creation and nothing—not rejection letters, criticism, or
discouragement—will stop us from creating and submitting. Creating and submitting.
Creating and submitting. Rejection burns, but your passion must burn hotter.
So the next time you ask yourself “Is my stuff good enough?” remember that while
some people may be blessed with a steadier brush hand, or an inclination for effortlessly
smooth sentencing, the rest of us have to practice for years to achieve those things, but
natural ability by itself will never beat hard work.
To the people whose creations grace the pages of this issue of The Salal Review,
congratulations. Your hard work has paid off. To those of you who submitted but didn’t
quite make the cut, we are cheering for you and eagerly awaiting your submissions next fall.
Don’t be discouraged, but rise to the challenge. Look us straight in our beady little
glass-marble eyes, and prove to us that the world needs to see what you’ve created. If your
fire burns hot, it might burn a few of us badly enough that we’ll never forget the scars you
leave.
Arthur Wheeldon
Editor
The Salal Review
The
Bell
after “Free Union” by Andre Breton
Trisha Kc Buel Wheeldon
My Washington whose rain is of the judges
Whose rain is soft sprinkled diamonds of a broken mirror
Whose sky is an ancient slate wiped clean
Whose sky is blended eye shadow and an upside down umbrella
Whose horizon is Pego, chandeliers in a shop window
And knowing you’re still yourself
Whose mountains are crescendos in the “Waltz of the Flowers”
Whose beaches are rising to check the time and ebbing back to sleep
With waves that are each finger of holding hands
With waves that are decades of fashion
My Washington whose woods are the hand-tied quilt I never had
The hand-tied quilt I never made
Whose trees are wizards’ wands
Whose trees are waiting watchmen
Armed with arrows pointing the way
Whose trees are stakes for every tent in the Emerald City
My Washington whose roads are the spinning of a cobweb
Whose road is a blue vein pumping tractors
Whose three rivers are slideshows
A photo of an old romance, of birthday cakes, first day of school
Whose lake is a bowl of fireworks
My Washington with a hill ding-donging on the hour
With a hill that is forever pregnant with vegetable seeds
With a hill that is a turtle shell and a wrinkle in velvet
With a hill of a spoonful of sugar
My Washington with a hill swelling with courage for the first kiss
My Washington, with a hill that is home.
8
Jump
Ray Cooper
Beyond These Rusty Bones
Elizabeth Engel
10
Bite of the Radish
John D. Ciminello
The fruit of betrayal,
like a trickster offering
the bright red radish to an unsuspecting three year old.
Feigning sweetness, I bite into the fruit,
and laugh when she does likewise.
She looks at me as if sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lost a friend
or favorite toy.
Her lips pucker, sour juices dribble down her chin,
and chunks of red and white flesh
spill from her mouth.
Food as treason, food as sweetness,
the thief and the saint enjoy the same
apple dipped in honey and rolled in crushed hazelnuts
and when poisoned share the same fate.
Paul Cezanne claimed a carrot,
freshly observed could
start a revolution.
A crust of bread can be
the source of murder,
or when in love divided
could feed the world.
And today I wonder how
the silly little prank,
the deception of the bite of the radish,
forever changed her trust
and forever shaped my
register of regrets.
11
A Half Bubble Off Plumb
Kelley Jacquez
Jimmy De La Cruz stepped
from the back of the pick-up truck and
thanked the man who’d given him a
ride. That morning he’d paid a dollar to
shower at the truck stop, then dressed in
the clothes he’d washed two days before
at the Sparkle Laundromat. He’d vowed
to stay sober throughout the entire
celebration of El Dia de Eminentes and
left his half-empty quart of liquor along
with the rest of his belongings in the ’71
Pontiac where he slept at the junkyard.
Rosario De La Cruz, Jimmy’s
grandfather and El Nido’s oldest
survivor of World War II, again this year
sat at the head table at the church picnic.
The look of Rosario made strangers turn
away. Thick glasses gave him a crosseyed look. His right cheek was mostly
missing, with only shiny, translucent
tissue to cover blue veins, the veneer
of skin resembling a shear, dun-colored
curtain swept to one side with an
invisible clothespin.
Rosario rose from his chair, and
everyone began to shush the children
and settle themselves against the backs
of folding chairs. They knew they were
about to hear the history of the Bataan
12
Death March. Rosario always began
with reminding them that 70,000 men
— two hundred times the number of
people in El Nido — had been forced
to walk sixty-five miles without food or
treatment for the wounded. Ten thousand
bodies were left along the trail before the
march ended. Another 6,000,
Rosario said, had taken death into their
own hands by escaping into the
Philippine jungle. Thousands more died
of dysentery, disease, and malnutrition at
the prisoner-of-war camp.
The celebration always included
a local hero who had done something
brave during the previous year. This year
it was Antonio Manzanares. His act of
bravery had been to jump into the frozen
waters of an inlet of the San Juan River
to save his faithful dog from drowning
after the animal had broken through a
thin mantle of ice.
Antonio listened to praise for his
courage, but it brought him little
pleasure. The memory of the dog
frantically pumping its legs to get a grip
on the slosh that kept pulling him deeper
made Antonio squirm in his seat. For
Antonio, the recollection of jumping into
the freezing water felt like one of the
biggest mistakes of his life.
As he and the dog suffocated
from shock while pounding at slush,
digging fingernails and claws into ice
that broke apart and disintegrated into
the stuff of snow cones, the last thing on
Antonio’s mind was saving the stupid
goddamned dog, and if he could have
used the dog’s body to save his own he
would have done it. Then, somehow,
Antonio had a hold of the dog, and they
were lying on top of solid ground like
two icicles dropped in dirt.
He now held a plaque, and when
he stood to deliver a few words to the
crowd he told them honestly that he
didn’t deserve their admiration.
As with the rest of the crowd,
Jimmy listened to the account of Antonio’s bravery and clapped when the
plaque was handed over. But for Jimmy
the story was painful. He was filled with
jealousy and self-loathing. He listened
to his grandfather’s story of Bataan,
Antonio’s story of cheating death, and
felt himself compacting into a small box
made of shame.
*****
The day Jimmy became a
coward, he and the four men left in his
unit walked through a village they would
have sworn they’d seen before: a lot
of women and children and old men, a
place to fill canteens, a chance to pilfer
food. The villagers tried not to look at
the soldiers walking among them, and
those who did were old men bowing
deeply, smiling, hoping their humility
might keep everyone alive. The people
went about their work, the routine they’d
set for themselves, the things that helped
them hold on to a world without
destroyed crops and dead relatives.
A woman in the village reminded
Jimmy of his mother. She looked near
his mother’s age and had the same small,
strong hands, with work-dried, flaky skin
in the cracks of her knuckles. She had
the middle-aged round belly of his
mother and the assiduous eyes of a
woman who does not believe in idle
time. She had just washed her hair and
now left it hanging down past her waist
to dry in the sun. Watching the hair swirl
around the woman’s hips as she bent
over her work, Jimmy wanted to move
close to her. He wanted to smell her hair.
Jimmy knew that if he wanted to
go up to the woman and smell her hair
there would be nothing anyone could
13
Haunted Window
Summer Jennings
14
do about it. But Jimmy did not go to
the woman demanding that she supply
him with an echo of his childhood. He
thought of his own mother and imagined
her fear if a soldier came to her house
and then wanted to come close to her.
He banished his need to stand near to
the woman and simply drew in a breath
through his nostrils and sniffed the scent
of soap that wasn’t there at all.
Jimmy knew he was a coward.
He knew that when he shot his weapon it
was terror that moved him to action. And
when it was over, he shook inside his
clothes, refusing to speak for hours after
an altercation, sucking on the insides
of his cheeks to keep down the bile that
raced up and down his throat. His
moments of longing for home, of not
understanding the war were not moments
at all. They were not private instances
of pondering human motivation or the
reasons for war or his place on the stage
of human drama. They were moments
strung together without spaces of aching
to be in his mother’s kitchen, to be
working in his grandfather’s garage,
to be surrounded by Spanish-speaking
people who shared his very same life.
The men in his unit knew Jimmy
was a coward. They knew he shook.
They knew he was the last to return fire
when something started, as if he had to
be convinced every single time that this
was real and there was no other option
but to shoot back.
The soldiers left the village after
a perfunctory search of rice barrels and
huts and walked toward a rendezvous
with another unit. Into the late afternoon
sun the march became haphazard, the
men less attentive than they should have
been. They knew better. They knew that
when they rocked themselves to sleep
with the rhythm of their own powdered
footsteps in the dirt, when they dozed on
their feet with thoughts of a girlfriend’s
smooth skin, or the smell of a mother’s
freshly cooked food, or of
conspiring with a best friend to pull off
a high school prank, that those were the
most dangerous times.
Had there been a neutral observer
it would have been difficult to decide
which group of men was the more
startled when five Americans and a
handful of Viet Cong were suddenly
standing less than twenty yards apart.
The Americans fell to the ground
hoping to make themselves flat and were
the first to pull off rounds as the Viet
Cong flew toward the cover of trees and
tall grass. One of the Vietnamese did a
sort of graceful leap, then plummeted to
15
the ground as if suddenly erased from
the landscape by a dissatisfied artist. The
rest of the Viet Cong disappeared into
the terrain.
For the Americans there was
nowhere to go, so the men began
pushing themselves backward like
skittish lizards trying to fit under a low
rock. Their elbows akimbo to their
sides, their legs flayed out as if femur
muscles had been cut, the men couldn’t
see where they were going. They kept up
their backward slither until they felt the
ground beneath them give way. A shelf
of land tapered off, giving them a threefoot drop into precarious safety.
“So this is home,” said Private
Matthews, a man who had become
Jimmy’s friend since they’d been
assigned to the same unit.
“What now,” said another man.
“We wait,” answered Trigger, the
unit’s leader.
His men despised him, but they
knew Trigger was right. They had orders
to join the other unit, and they couldn’t
let them walk into an ambush.
The body of the Vietnamese
soldier lay halfway between the
American soldiers and the Viet Cong.
The Viet Cong would not leave without
the body, and the Americans couldn’t
16
leave without warning the forthcoming
unit. The two sides settled in for a night
of waiting, listening.
Now it began — the incident that
removed all doubt that Jimmy De La
Cruz was a coward.
*****
“Pssst, Jimbo, my turn yet?”
Private Matthews’ voice came from
among a huddle of bodies.
“Go back ta sleep,” said Jimmy,
looking at his watch. “Not your turn
yet.”
“Can’t sleep any more.”
Jimmy watched Matthews unwind
himself from the sleeping men. They lay
together in a crook of the shelf
looking like the bodies of dead men put
to one side after a battle, and Jimmy had
to remind himself that they were only
sleeping.
“Anything happening over there?
Is the body still there? Maybe they got
the body and left.”
“It’s still there,” said Jimmy.
“What do you think they’re up
to?”
“I think they’re tired and hungry
— jus’ like us,” said Jimmy.
“Well they ain’t like us.” The
fierce whisper like a needle poking into
flesh was Trigger. “They’re gooks, and
something is going to happen real soon
even if I gotta make it happen. I say we
go get the body,” said Trigger.
“What the hell for,” snapped Matthews.
“To force ‘em into something.
All we’re doing is sitting here —and
besides, the dead guy’s got ammo.”
“That’s suicide,” said Jimmy.
“Yeah, you’re nuttier than I
thought you were,” said Matthews.
“You’re a bunch of pansies. You
guys just cover me in case the gooks are
up watching the late show.”
“Wait,” said Jimmy, pulling at
Trigger’s sleeve.
“I’m going,” said Trigger,
jerking his arm from Jimmy’s grip,
and he began snaking his way through
the grass toward the body. He did it so
silently that at first Jimmy and Matthews
thought he wasn’t moving at all. But
then the silhouette of the dead body in
the distance suddenly came alive. As if
resurrected, the body moved its arms,
raised its head just slightly. The Viet
Cong saw it too, and the darkness
became a backdrop for the fire spitting
out of automatic weapons.
Jimmy and Matthews returned
the volley, unable to see what they were
shooting at but keeping their guns raised
away from where they knew Trigger and
the body were entangled. The sleeping
men jumped up to help, blasting treetops
with bullets.
When Trigger first got to the
body he thought the job would be easy. It
looked as if the ammunition pack would
slide straight away from the dead man’s
shoulder with just a tug. But the pack got
hung up on an elbow, and Trigger had
to raise himself a bit to get a grip on the
pack, had to raise the dead man’s arm
to untangle the strap. Trigger pulled the
dead man on top of himself, and began
moving back toward his men using the
body as a shield. He could feel that the
body had been hit several times. His
nostrils were full of the body’s stench,
and now he would be wearing the body’s
putrid ooze on himself.
Trigger got the body back to the
men, and in a few minutes the
shooting subsided. “Now you’ve done
it you stupid mother . . . ”, Matthews
hissed.
“That’s right ass-hole, now it’s
done,” spit Trigger.
The first inference of daylight
had shone itself during the foray, and
now the men could better see the object
that had kept them all waiting to move
17
on. They saw the wound that killed the
man, and the bullet wounds he sustained
while saving the life of Trigger
The body resembled an effigy
stuffed with straw, bloated to twice the
size of the man who once lived inside it.
The face looked like a cartoon
character who’d been hit with a frying
pan. Next to the man lay a small
melange of possessions. As Trigger
pulled him down the draw the man’s
pockets had emptied, and the contents
lay in a line along the drag marks.
Instead of a wallet, the man carried a
pouch. The leather strings had loosened,
and now the things the pouch once held
lay beside him. Jimmy was the first to
notice the contents of the man’s pockets
spilling out on to the earth.
“His stuff,” said Jimmy,
making a move toward the body. There
were piasters and a cross with Jesus
stretched across the face. It struck Jimmy
that this man carried for the same reason
the same symbol of the same God his
mother assured him would save his life.
Next to the coins, and under the cross,
lay pictures. One of the pictures showed
a family gathered at a celebration. Next
to one woman sat a man Jimmy thought
might be the dead man. Next to them sat
an old couple, arms interlocked,
18
smiling. The old couple were the dead
man’s parents thought Jimmy.
The other men seemed more
mesmerized by the body itself, the fluid
sieving out, the stench of the decay, the
disbelieving hypnosis of death. Jimmy
broke the trance by leaning down to the
man and picking up the last of his
belongings. He gathered the things that
belonged in the pouch and put them back
inside. Then he kneaded the pouch into
the man’s pocket.
“I wanna give ‘em back’,” said
Jimmy.
The men thought Jimmy meant
he wanted to do just what he had already
done — give back to the dead man his
possessions. They stood mute while
Jimmy went beyond putting the
belongings into pockets and began
straightening the man’s shirt and
smoothing down his hair. They watched
without comprehension when Jimmy
pulled out a rag usually used for wiping
down his gun and began tying it to the
muzzle of his weapon. The men watched
the fingers tie the knot, watched the
hands raise the barrel above Jimmy’s
head, watched the oily, soot-streaked flag
flutter like a molting bird tethered to a
pole against its will. Then they watched
as Jimmy took the dead man by the back
of the collar and began pulling him.
They were so hypnotized by the flutter
of the flag and the tracks left by the pull
of the dead man’s body, they did not try
to stop him, nor were they able to give
warning before Trigger came from
behind and smashed the butt of his
weapon between Jimmy’s shoulders.
“What do you think you’re
doing,” screamed Trigger, “you coward,
you god-damned sissy coward.” Jimmy
did not stay down. Instead, he grabbed
at dirt, trying to pull himself along while
still holding on to the gun flying the
dingy rag and the scuff of the dead
man’s collar. Without looking at Trigger,
he said only, “ I’m goin’ home.”
“I’ll shoot you myself,” and
Trigger took aim.
“Either way,” said Jimmy
without looking at Trigger, “ I’m goin’
home.”
Leveling his weapon was the last
thing Trigger did before he saw scores
of pinpoint diamonds hurtling into an
abyss. Matthews stood over him, poised
to deliver another blow, but it was not
needed. The diamonds traveled at the
speed of light until they disappeared, and
Trigger slept long enough for yet another
man to save his life that day.
Matthews watched Jimmy’s
silhouette pull itself upright against the
gloam of morning. The gun with the
flag fell to the ground, and the silhouette
pulled the dead man’s body behind it.
Then Matthews heard the silhouette
calling out to the trees, to the grass, to
the sound of breathing where no faces
could be seen.
“Hey,” called Jimmy, “Here’s
your buddy. We den’t take none a’ his
stuff.” Jimmy reached for something in
back of himself, and Matthews was sure
the move would foment a volley of fire.
But no shots came from the trees, no
sound, no movement.
“Hey,” called Jimmy to the
phantoms, “I wanna go home.” He held
up his wallet and set free a ladder of
photographs.
“These are my parents.” Jimmy
continued to walk forward in a simple
saunter that might have made him
look like a small boy preoccupied with
kicking leaves except for the body he
dragged along behind him.
“This is my sister. She’s going to
college.”
Jimmy tripped over uneven
ground but righted himself without
going down. “This is my brother,
Alfredo.” Jimmy stopped midway
19
between where the Vietnamese men hid
in the jungle and where his own men
huddled in the draw.
Jimmy let go of the body and let
it fall gently into the grass.
“’I’m goin’ home,” said Jimmy.
First a rustle to Jimmy’s left, then
another to his right.
“OK,” said Jimmy, turning
around to walk back toward the draw.
“OK.”
Jimmy walked away with his
back to the phantoms in the trees and
faced the men with whom he had shared
youth. He saw disbelief on their faces,
but missed the look of admiration behind
their eyes. He missed it altogether as he
walked slump-shouldered and weary
back to where Trigger still lay in the land
of stars while the other men stood in a
land of morbid reality, never questioning
until that moment why they had agreed
to kill people they would have never
otherwise met on the streets of home.
*****
Jimmy waited for the speeches to end,
knowing he could slip away when
people got up to fill their plates. At the
El Nido highway he put out his thumb
as he walked backward. He renewed his
daily vow that tomorrow would be the
20
first day of a sober life. He would
finish that one bottle left in the car at the
junkyard and tomorrow he would ask
someone for a ride to an AA meeting. Or
maybe he’d go all the way and ask his
brother to spring for a ticket to the VA
rehab in Albuquerque.
It was settled; tomorrow for sure.
Or he could wait until the first of the
month when he got his disability check
and buy his own bus ticket. After thirty
days sober, his parents would be happy
to see him and his mother wouldn’t look
at him so sad anymore. Maybe he could
hold a job. Get a car. Have his own
apartment.
Yes, the first of the month for
sure. Jimmy’s grandfather watched him
disappear into the crowd and reappear
on the highway. He knew, the family
knew, about the bottles, the years of
bottles. He knew that Jimmy had become someone the town called Bubbles
because, they said, he was a half bubble
off plumb. A little crazy, they said, when
they happened to see him walking along
the roads, but harmless.
“A Half Bubble Off Plumb” is used with permission
of Bilingual Press (Hispanic Research Center, Arizona
State University). A longer version of the story will
appear in the author’s collection Holding Woman and
Other Stories of Acceptable Madness, forthcoming in
summer 2013.
Sean Connery
Asia Murray
21
The Letter
Kris Kibbee
Marley glanced at the paper in
her hand, reading over the words with a
rutted brow. She carefully evaluated the
turn of phrase, the intonation and even
the penmanship. Had she said too much?
Too little? Would anyone feel excluded?
Her lips mouthed the words as her eyes
passed over them. She’d selected each
of them so carefully, like a newborn’s
name.
Satisfied, Marley closed the final
line, folded the sheet into thirds and
slipped it into an envelope with three
words printed neatly on the front. A
pair of glass salt & pepper shakers that
glistened with a fresh cleaning sat on the
table before her and Marley propped her
letter against them. She stared at it for a
time, picked it up and rose to leave.
With the suddenly heavy letter
in hand, Marley ambled down the hall
and through a dark doorway. Flipping on
the overhead lights, she watched herself
in the mirror as light filled in all around
her. Her pencil-thin lips traced her face
in a flat line, like the equator on a globe.
They weren’t full and kissable, as lips
should be. She smiled and they grew
thinner. She stopped.
22
Marley propped her letter up
behind the sink and as she withdrew her
hand, the gold band on her ring finger
clinked on its porcelain rim. As her eyes
lingered there, words past yet still vivid
plundered her mind. I just don’t see you
that way anymore. She looked at her
letter. It looked back.
In a mechanical fashion
indicative of years of repetition, Marley
withdrew a makeup bag from the top
drawer and proceeded to mask her
blemishes, trace her eyes, and line her
lips. Her mother had always called it
“puttin’ on my face.” As Marley labored
to create the perfect face, she realized
it began to look more and more like her
mother’s, only plain. She looked away
from the mirror and down at her letter. It
looked back.
Marley had lain out her clothes
the night before, and as she pulled the
neck of a long navy dress over her head,
its tag caught on her wavy hair. In school
they’d called her Snarly Marley. All the
girls ironed their hair back then.
“Dammit!”
The dress was a size too small,
and a grunt of effort escaped as Marley
pulled it down over her hips. She made a
face and looked at the letter where it lay
on the bed. It looked back.
Under normal circumstances,
Marley detested drugs. As a rule, she
even avoided prescription drugs. She
liked to keep her wits about her; keep
charge of her body. But the letter was in
charge now.
Marley unearthed the two
amber bottles she’d nicked from work
and poured their contents on the newly
made bed. The bedcovers had tight,
hospital corners with crisp dart lines and
the pills bounced across them like
children on a trampoline.
Swallowing forty pills in two heaping handfuls is no easy task. Once, as a
child, Marley had inhaled fifty-eight M&M’s
in three handfuls in a rush to hide them from
her mother, who forbade confections of any
kind. Boys don’t look at little fat girls, she’d
said.
Marley’s eyes glistened with strain,
but in seconds she had ingested the contents
of both bottles. The pills weren’t nearly as
sweet as her ill-gotten M&M’s. Her vision
so blurred, she could barely make out the
words on her letter as it stared back at her.
Look at me.
23
Shadow Woman
Steve Grob
24
There’s This Guy On The Block
Lorraine Merrin
He doesn’t know I watch him.
Well, no, I don’t watch him. really.
It’s more like I glance up now and then
when he’s nearby or when, at night,
his lights are on and I can see
him in his kitchen or his living room.
I don’t mean to spy on him.
just kind of keep an eye
on him, you know.
I like to listen when he plays.
He makes that sax wail, mournful;
it’s like my lonely got caught on the wind.
Sometimes I wish he’d see me
and be even just a little interested.
‘cause I’d like to get to know him.
but then, I suppose
if it didn’t work out I’d have to move,
‘cause walking past his building,
living in the same neighborhood,
well, it could feel kind of awkward
and more lonely
than before
I ever met him,
you know.
25
Overcome
Summer Jennings
26
Sometimes There Are No Words
and the distance widens
in the space of silence.
Lorraine Merrin
Sometimes language
spins itself out
into an empty room
and the pain howls, reeling,
glancing off objects and walls
and the rain, always the rain.
thundering down, unrelenting.
unwilling to allow mere tears
to get the best of it.
27
At Dusk the Gardener’s Eyes Stray Upward
Lavender waves its purple spires
Veiled by baby’s breath cloud;
Pea tendrils grasp
Cascading grapes
Under which chickens scratch.
Sparrow’s song cheers this small world
Of sun and rain and green,
Which though by others never seen,
Reveals one gardener’s dream.
Light of day wanes to purple skies
Vela sails Milky Way’s cloud;
Pegasus gallops
Cygnus the swan
Follows Aquila’s trail.
Lyra soars above this dome
Where moon and planets gleam,
Which shows to those who wish to
see,
The gardener’s greater dream.
28
Jane S. Poole
Purple Lily
Katherine Robbins
29
Bitter Tea
John D. Ciminello
Green tea afternoon in
the land of the maritime â&#x20AC;&#x201C;
ocean breezes salt my knuckles,
as my fingers play with the curls
of your lavender scented hair.
Ken pounds another nail into the wall next door,
one bang closer to his dream of
restoring the old house on Franklin Avenue.
A whiff of witchcraft in the
hemlock outside our bedroom window.
I hear the melody from
an accidental radio,
a song in search of lyrics,
a spell between the hammer and the saw,
one beat away from the perfect sigh
spinning dust and light above the transom.
Down the alley, little girls laugh
in chimes and speak
in honeysuckle tongues,
a dialect in present perfect
preserved for childhood and old women
serving bitter tea and scones
on moist summer afternoons in
the land of the maritime.
30
Young Girl
Alana Bloomfeldt
31
Silent Morning
Azamat Berdiyev
32
Visit of a Genial Fog
Janice Haupt
This fog is not from yesterday
or today.
It is the breath of a white pony on the moor,
the shadow of a snowfall.
It sneaks
from hidden hot tubs and fills the night
like children’s dreams of Christmas,
rises from flower designs in
next summer’s apple pie,
wisps into sweet mist from a hunter’s thermos.
It light-years down from some moist planet
where creatures make love
behind waterfalls,
creeps
from smiley places like gingerbread ovens
and Grandpa’s chuckle behind his pipe.
In high northern seclusions
it crannies against cliffs
to cushion the air when young eagles
learn to fly.
While no one is watching
it drifts out to sea,
where
over deep watery graves,
it rests as soft as a prayer.
33
Queue
Nancy Bauer
34
Wild Box
Ruby Murray
The day Rita told me she quit, I
walked the wooden planks to the
cannery, toward the hoist and the red
plastic totes stenciled Northwest Fish
Company that were stacked four high
against the old building.
I didn’t come down here much.
The fishermen hung out in an apartment
in back, drinking and talking about their
fathers and grandfathers.
My shoes made no sound on the
thick boardwalk, but I could have been
walking into my boss’s yard. Her
windows were open; light fell on a wall
in a hallway. She lived in what was
called the China House, named for the
men who lived there, and worked gutting
and canning fish by the thousands for
San Francisco and the world.
She had talked about the
remodeling, the taupe shingles and
the cannery-style light on the small
house, the row of opium bottles on the
windowsill.
I felt myself shaking, I didn’t
know what I’d say if she called out to
me, pictured that wild brown hair, her
standing tall and thin on the deck. I
passed inside the cannery and went
upstairs.
Pete stood beside a hanging
board, alone in the long room. Light
from a window made the mesh bright.
He held the net needle in his palm and
passed it under the line and looped up,
added a cork and tugged. I went to stand
beside him, my hands in the front
pockets of my jeans.
“This room would have been full
of guys hanging net when I was
growing up,” he said. His stories were
long. I walked to the window, toward the
smell of mud at low tide, the gray river,
the Halpern’s silo on the island. Twenty
sport boats were splayed across the river
like polka dots.
“This floor is varnished tongue
and groove cedar. It won’t snag the net.”
His stories reminded me of my
father’s. I’d been listening, wanting
to put my finger on the time when the
Cathlamets and the Wahkiakums were
replaced by the whites. They brought in
the Chinese to work, and by 1880, there
were 551 Chinese men in a county of
1500. I pictured them, sitting on the wall
35
behind the China House in the evening,
talking with people who passed on the
path uphill, eating vegetables they’d
grown.
Pete worked slowly with careful
tugging between knots. He had ivory and
wooden needles on shelves in the house
his father built. He was as solid a man as
I’d known.
“Can I go out fishing with you
tonight?” I said.
“Yeah, the opening is from seven
until eleven. Depending on the catch
could be a late night.”
“I don’t care,” I crossed my
arms. “Rita’s gone.”
He looked up, “Fired?”
“Quit. She couldn’t take it
anymore.”
“That’s crap,” he said. I waited
to see if he’d put the needle down. When
he didn’t, I put my arms around him, and
spoke into his shirt.
“I can’t work for Marilyn
anymore.”
He put the needle down, both
arms closing around me.
It was sprinkling when I found
a park at the marina. Sportsmen were
taking their boats out of the water; a line
36
of trailers crawled up Una Street. Spud
Anderson was backing his trailer into the
water and Big Art was giving someone
on the Mary J instructions.
Pete was on the El Dorado,
circling as he did before we left for
camping, packing one more field guide,
another gazetteer. He lifted the cover to
the fish locker.
He said, “Ron Johnson’s coming,
but he’s late.”
“Marilyn’s son?” I followed Pete
into the cabin.
He said, “Yeah. He’s a good
hand.”
“Did you have to get him?” I
looked at the greasy burners on the turquoise stove. “Maybe I could help you.”
He was looking at the channel on
the plotter, his back to me. “He doesn’t
work with her.”
“She’s trying to fire me.”
He sat on the stool by the wheel
and turned slightly. “He doesn’t even
live with her.”
“Don’t you think they talk?”
“I don’t know what they do,” he
said.
I tilted my head back; the lights
were getting brighter in front of the
Pedersen’s’ house on the cliff.
“I guess I can go home,” I said,
and saw the pained look he got
sometimes.
Ron stepped onto the boat
carrying a small cooler, rubber boots
and a duffle bag. He wore blue sweat
pants, Romeos and a limp gray
sweatshirt.
“We got egg salad,” he said, putting the cooler just inside the cabin door.
“This is Lisa,” Pete said. “She’s
going out with us.”
Ron nodded, threw the bag under
the table. “We should hit it just right,
high tide in Astoria at 6:30,” he said,
and started taping a spoon to a wooden
handle with black electrical tape.
“You work at the hospital?” he
asked.
“No,” I said, leaning against the
edge of the bench with its vinyl cushion.
“She works for the county,” Pete
said.
“Oh, the health department?”
I stared at him, wondering why
he assumed I was a nurse.
Pete turned to him, “You want to
get the water running to the wild box?”
“I guess it’s time,” Pete said. Ron
bent to untie the line, stepped in, and
we were off, moving between the lines
of gillnetters and sport boats, past the
yachts and the lights like stars in the wet
air, into the Elochoman Slough, then the
gray world of the river.
Pete powered toward Three Tree
Point, the engine loud beneath our feet in
the aluminum boat. We ran beside ridges
like whale’s backs, so familiar they were
family. When we got to the drift, Pete
steered close to the buoy, then over to
the cliffs and a sand beach no one could
reach by land.
The trees on the point stood out
against a navy sky for a while, then all
that was left was the thought of stars
beyond the rain. I imagined my friend,
Diana, on the Jaguar in Bristol Bay, the
Russian Orthodox icon on the bulkhead
in the little cabin, her articles about the
Aleut’s internment. She had married a
local and from the outside her life looked
perfect.
We put on rain gear, then it was
seven and time to lay out. Ron threw the
buoy over. The net spun out floating in
the air, the corks making a long curving
line.
37
Peter Iredale
Jenica Lemmons
38
The end of the net was lost in the
dark, the buoy a small red light, while
we floated downriver with the ebbing
tide.
Pete kept looking at his watch,
standing near the bow, and then he was
at the control, taking up net. Ron was
watching the net that shined white under
the light, but there were no fish.
No fish the second drift either.
But on the third, Ron was picking fish,
his hands spinning as he unrolled them
from the net, and Pete was sliding them
along the deck. The boat was half full of
salmon, sleek, silver and shining, their
tails thwacking the deck hard.
We lay out again. The world was
the deck, the darkness, the number of
salmon we’d sell, and the time we had
left to fish.
Tightie Erickson called to see if
we were catching anything. Pete said,
“Come over here, if you want.”
I took Ron’s place, my thighs
against the gunnel, leaning over the
water, watching for fish in the net as it
came up. When the fish was in the boat, I
started pulling at the net as I’d seen them
do. But the filament seemed to evaporate
when I touched it. I was trying to separate the layers, feeling awkward in the
rain pants, the sleeves of the rain jacket
folded up, the hood cutting my vision.
Ron stepped toward me, but
Pete said, “She’s okay.”
I tried loosening the net; it
looked so easy when they did it. The
more I held onto, the more remained.
I felt my face getting hot. My fingers
were cold in the gloves.
“Take it easy,” Pete said. I
slowed down and tried again for the
motion they used, and finally the fish
was in my arms, but it was wild. Ron
took it to the box. Pete was taking up
net again, while I leaned over the side.
“We’ve got two,” I said, starting to pick
when they were in the boat, but I wasn’t
doing any better. I took off my gloves,
but it didn’t help, the net was light in
my hands. The fish stayed tangled, its
gills moved showing red, and I thought
I’ll never get this.
Ron came to stand beside me.
Pete was waiting to take in more net.
When he didn’t say anything, Ron took
the fish from the net and slid it toward
Pete.
I stood in the door of the cabin,
and watched them under the light, one
on either side of the net, Ron in orange
and Pete, taller, in yellow rain gear.
39
They moved together easily in the light
rain, in a rhythm theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d followed many
times.
Each of the compartments of the
wild box held a fish, the running water
was restoring them, but the space was
too small for them to turn. One was rising, its eyes above the water, but it sank
back as the boat rolled. My knees moved
with the rise and fall of the swell and I
imagined the fish sailing out, over the
side and into the river.
40
Fall
Asia Murray
41
Technician’s Verse
Darlene deVida
Confusion reigns within
reflect, hope, and Ctrl-alt-del
Order will return
We should never be get here
The memory could not be “read”
Keyboard error, press F1 to continue
My file, my life
Cannot be found
No one hears you scream
Terminal application error
Press ok to continue
All is lost – press trigger?
Yesterday it saved
Today kernel panic
Zen engineering?
Enter password
Keyboard error, press any key to continue
You don’t exist go away
Yesterday it worked
Today does not compute
network down.
Out of memory
The blue screen of death
Lost in space
Request is valid
Server refuse to respond
404 file not found
42
Dreams Take Flight
Nona Nowlin
43
Locked in the Seasons
Amanda Sirois
It remains locked in the seasons
tree trunk dark sienna, broad structure
grasping at the earth
two hands entwined, rooted in a history
that grows and changes as the earth moves and erodes
between them.
The branches weave through one another
each season scarred with its moment in time.
The winter branch braided with oleander, the petals cling
to the etchings of memories that time has left.
Springs branch whispers its descent over winter, with green
renewal. Undefined vines weave their way just above the etchings;
they do not cling but grow toward the unknown.
Summers branches work hard to keep the budding leaves
of memory and change alive.
Fall is melancholy, despite the beauty of its branch, golden yellow red leaves burn to brown
and stay stuck in their descent towards death
finding their way they crumble and fold back into the hands beneath the soil
binding reminders of the connection they share.
44
Winter Scene
Suzanne Norman
45
The Key of C
Katherine Robbins
46
Jongleur
In verse and in song, in prose soaring and long
His grandfather told stories in village and town.
In swales and plains and mountains he roamed
Led by the sun where the weather fit his clothes.
J.S. Anderson
Traveling south in the winter, north when hot,
West to east, east to west was as good as not.
Stopping to sing, to tell a story for a pence.
To lift a draught, to give a laugh, to court a wench.
His voice was pure and amber and sweet.
At every stop, townsfolk gathered round to hear him sing.
And to listen to stories of presidents and kings.
Knights in armor and ladies with braids,
Cracked mirrors and iguanas and damsels afraid.
Now he, the grandson, hitches rides in trucks and cars
Carrying a knapsack, bottled water and two guitars.
Cities and suburbs and townships he covers
Led by visions of stardom and being discovered.
He croons in clubs and casinos and small town bars.
Stories he tells are of missed chances and second-rate stars.
In cities, he plays on the street for nightly rent
For dimes and quarters that are quickly spent.
47
Few stop to listen, many more stride past
Talking on cell phones or just walking fast.
One day in a cold and foggy city
He found his way to a great library.
There, in the childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s section he began to sing
And tell stories of presidents and kings,
Knights in armor and ladies with braids,
Cracked mirrors and iguanas and damsels afraid.
And children began to gather, and wiggle, and listen.
Their mothers and father found them in rapt attention.
For his songs told stories and his tales were deep
With romance and history, with delicious mystery.
And his voice was pure and amber and
sweet.
48
Raven Girl
Kendra Skerbeck
49
The Butterfly Invasion
Several butterflies crowded
into a painting where roses were always
blossoming at dawn.
David Hughey
Autumnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Silent Beauty
Angela Ankenmen
50
Milk and Honey
after “Free Union” by Andre Breton
Kristin Yuill
my bed whose blankets are every Christmas morning
whose sheets become a chrysalis
whose springs are the first snowfall in December
waiting for words
whose pillows are cool blue moonlight
whose pillows are the first stars of the Perseids
whose pillows are a cold drink
from a garden hose
washing the heat of August past my tongue
whose frame is alabaster clouds
shaped like horses and mice
whose frame carries men to battle
armed with sabers and sashes
swirling through eddies of tropical bird down
whose frame is a rocking chair
tapping the slippered feet of my future: a cadence on the forest floor
my bed whose mattress is a fountain of purple foxglove
whose favorite remedy is one elixir of life
whose box spring is the Spanish Armada
whose box spring is the second star to the right
straight on ‘til morning
my bed whose pillowcases are two elephants carrying
a golden sedan through a shivering rainforest
my bed whose sandstorms envelope me in graham cracker crust
my bed with a mouthful of milk and honey
51
24 Hour Cafe
Angel Ocasio
There’s only a few of us here:
the cook, two waitresses talking about the Christmas Eve party last night,
and a bus boy—clanging dishes together.
There’s a young couple in the corner
with eyes only for each other,
and on a stool at the counter
sits a beggared old man slowly sipping on some hot soup
to warm the December cold away.
I sit in my booth
and look outside of my window.
No one walking—too early, too cold.
A taxi cab drives by—lights on, it’s available.
From the restaurant’s radio, “White Christmas”
as only Bing could sing it.
I look out the window again
and a light trace of snow falls slowly to the tempo of the festive song.
One of the waitresses refills my cup,
covering the remains of what went cold.
She smiles and remembers me from past visits.
I was already done with my coffee, but I take a final sip.
52
Lunch
Ruby Murray
53
I stand up and put on my coat.
I reach inside my pants pocket
and pull out a few dollars for my purchase.
I count to make sure there is enough for a tip
and leave it on the table.
I turn and walk outside.
The snow is falling hard.
I check the time on my watchâ&#x20AC;Ś3:10.
I lift up the collar of my coat and step into the flurries
of frozen rain.
I begin my walk through Christmas morning with
only one thought in my mindâ&#x20AC;Ś
I miss you.
54
Prayer for the Night
Kristin Yuill
I want to offer
a prayer
to the night,
whose moon is the breast
of my mother;
twenty-one
flowing freshly into life
a river.
I want to
praise
the night
whose moon is the song
of my birth day;
twenty-five
and counting
each star a blessing.
I pray
to the night
whose stars are the prayers of my family
whose late-August Perseids
are my Absolution: each falling star
a prayer
for me.
Amen.
55
Contributors
J.S. Anderson’s mother was born in Steilacoom in 1911. After retiring from a health care
career, he moved from Tuscon, Arizona to make “a permanent home in the city of trees.”
Angela Ankenman is a student in LCC’s Business Technology program; however, she is an
artist, as well. She didn’t approach painting until her freshman year at Mark Morris.
Nancy Bauer has spent a lifetime in Cowlitz County and used the eyes of her camera “to
capture this beautiful area on film.” She uses photography to tell a story and leave a legacy
for her children and grandchildren.
Azamat Berdiyev is a medical student at LCC. Photography is his hobby. It helps him remember “not to forget about beautiful aspects of life.” He hopes you will enjoy his photo.
Alana Bloomfeldt is an art major at LCC. She came here to play soccer, expand her learning, make art, and earn her DTA.
Ray Cooper teaches for the LCC Art Department.
John D. Ciminello is the author of the chapbook Shrine Above High Tide (2009). His poetry
and short fiction has appeared in various publications including Mentor, Lower Columbia
Reader, Salal, and RAIN MAGAZINE. He has lived in the Pacific Northwest for 30 years.
Darlene deVida teaches computer subjects at LCC. She wrote her first computer program in
1967, “and yes there were computers back then.” She loves the brevity of words in poetry
and the “deep and sometimes unexpected meaning.”
Elizabeth Engel is the Program Director for Medical Assisting at LCC. She loves to take
pictures.
Steve Grob started in photography at the age of nine in a class at a local art center.
56
Janice Haupt says, “I have lived my whole life in Cowlitz County and don’t plan on leaving.” Much of her knowledge of poetry she learned from Judith Irwin and Joe Green. She
has four daughters and twelve grandchildren who try to get together at least once a year.
David Hughey lives in Longview off of Columbia Heights Road. He is a former professor
and college dean. His poetry has been published in several anthologies including Driftwood
East, Feelings, and The Hollins Critc.
Kelley Jacquez lives “across the river,” in Clatskanie, Oregon, is an active member of
WordFest in Longview, and annual particapant at WordCatcher in Kalama.
Summer Jennings moved to Longview at age 16 and began taking college courses while in
high school. She is now a full-time intermediate photography student at LCC.
Kris Kibbee began her college education at LCC. She was a contributing writer to The
Vancougar while attending WSU. She is currently a columnist for Just Frenchies, a nationally syndicated magazine out of Maryland. She has lived most of her life in Cowlitz County.
Jenica Lemmons grew up in Cowlitz County. Photography is both her hobby and her fulltime job. She runs a professional photography business called Lemondrops Photography and
can be reached at lemondropsphoto@gmail.com
Lorraine Merrin’s poetry has appeared in various journals and two anthologies. Her first
poetry collection, Holding Tight To Gravity’s Tail, “is on a shelf in Poets House in NYC.”
She can be found under a tree or at lorri@rainemtnarts.com.
Asia Murray is a student at LCC. She loves art, so she decided to send in a few drawings to
see if one would find its way into the Salal.
Ruby Murray lives on Puget Island in the lower river estuary. Her essays have appeared in
several publications and on NPR. She is an enrolled Osage Indian and licensed professional
counselor.
57
Suzanne Norman graduated from LCC in 1998 and from WSU with a Bachelor of Science
in Psychology degree. She currently lives in Toledo, Washington and has several pieces of
art on commission at the Pacific Northwest Gift Gallery in Castle Rock.
Nona Nowlin is a transfer student at LCC. She is currently working on an art degree.
Though she plans to move on in her education, she will miss being here.
Angel Ocasio is a clown, writer and performer. He has published two books: Santa & Me,
a holiday children’s book, and a how-to book about the art of clowing, Clowning: Keep It
Simple, Keep It Real, as well as several poems.
Jane S. Poole has lived in the Pacific Northwest for 38 years and is a member of Cedar
Creek Writers. She has published several books including Adam’s Astronomy: The Original
Zodiac and The Forbidden Answer. You can find her blog at theheavensspeak.blogspot.com.
Katherine Robbins has lived in Longview her entire life. She is a full-time Running Start
student. She loves photography because it’s a chance to show the world “in a way some
people might not see it.”
Amanda Sirois is a graduate from LCC and believes that “the natural cycles which occur in
nature are the perfect metaphor for life, paralleling beautifully the human experience.”
Kendra Skerbeck is a student at Kelso High School and in Running Start at LCC. Her
future interests lie in making movies, animation, and video game design.
Trisha Kc Buel Wheeldon attended LCC prior to completing an undergraduate degree in
English with an emphasis in creative writing from BYU Idaho. She’s always considered
Longview her home “because it’s where I fell in love.”
Kristin Yuill attended LCC from 2003-05 and took all the writing classes she could. She
then studied English and Scottish literature at the University of Edinburgh. She currently
lives in Kelso, constructing her greatest work: her first baby.
58
Sponsors
Cary Rhode
Wayne Muzzy
To be among the sponsors listed in the next issue of The Salal Review,
make a tax-deductable donation of $10, $25, $50, or more to:
LCC Foundation: The Salal Review
Acknowledgments
The editors wish to thank the Associated Students of Lower Columbia College and
the LCC Foundation for continuing to fund and support The Salal Review, the LCC Office of
Instruction and Department of Language & Literature for supporting the Magazine
Publication course that makes The Salal Review possible, CoPrintCo for turning a dream into
something physical, and our individual sponsors for their financial support. We would also
like to thank Northwest Voices for being superb team players, Danielle Shulke for being an
organization wizard, and Debby Neely for being the Queen of InDesign.
59
Call for Submissions
The Salal Review is an annual publication of Lower Columbia College. It
involves student editors in the presentation of the best work available from the
writers, poets, and artists of the Lower Columbia Region.
To submit written work for consideration, send no more than five poems or
prose pieces, either by U.S. mail with a stamped, self-addressed reply
envelope, or by email attachment (MS Word or .RTF) to salal@lcc.ctc.edu
during the month of October, 2013.
For artwork, submit up to five pieces, either on paper or by email attachment,
during the month of January, 2014. We have limited space for color submissions, so black and white work is preferred. We cannot be responsible for oneof-a-kind originals, so please send clean copies. Digital images may be sent on
CD or by email, but must be high-resolution .jpeg files (300 dpi minnimum).
Please include a brief biographical note describing your connection to the
Lower Columbia Region.
To answer further questions regarding submissions, to receive a FREE copy of
The Salal Review, or to arrange a sponsorship donation, call us at
(360) 442-2630, or contact us by email at salal@lcc.ctc.edu. Mail submissions
or donations to The Salal Review, Lower Columbia College, P.O. Box 3010,
1600 Maple Street, Longview, WA 98632.
60
â&#x20AC;&#x153;While no one is watching
it drifts out to sea,
where,
over deep watery graves,
it rests as soft as a prayer.â&#x20AC;?
-Janice Haupt
Visit of a Genial Fog